


Let Go (Can't Hold On Forever)

by thedisgruntledone



Series: Unfair Exchange [11]
Category: Hannibal (TV)
Genre: Canon-Typical Violence, Episode: s02e13 Mizumono, M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-02-12
Updated: 2016-02-12
Packaged: 2018-05-20 00:20:25
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,264
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/5986015
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/thedisgruntledone/pseuds/thedisgruntledone
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>The game is finally ready to be over. All the pieces are in place and all that's left is for the trap to be sprung. But Will knows that even if things work out the way that they're supposed to, he won't emerge the victor. The only question is how much he is going to lose.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Let Go (Can't Hold On Forever)

**Author's Note:**

> There was so much that I wanted to do with this series, but life got in the way, and then season three was over and done and that was that, pretty much. I don't even know if anyone is still wondering about my little series or wants to read it, but I hate leaving things unfinished so I am back with one last installment. Thank you once again to all those who read the other stories and took the time to kudos or comment.

“The last supper,” Jack said with wry amusement, “is that what the two of you are calling it?”

Will shrugged. “We’re going to have lamb.” He shifted slightly, uncomfortable. The chairs in Jack’s office were not soft, and he couldn’t seem to find a position that didn’t make him want to squirm. It wasn’t pain exactly, but it wasn’t really pleasure, either. Will swallowed hard, fought back the memory of a hard, strong body pressed against him, grinding him down into a soft mattress, and shifted again.

Jack’s eyes narrowed. “Is there something you want to tell me?”

“Tell you? No, Jack. There’s nothing I want to tell you.” He heard the bitterness in his own voice and closed his eyes. His hands flexed on the chair.

_Hands at his hips, a hot mouth on the back of his neck, biting_ , and Will opened his eyes, barely holding back a gasp as heat flared through him. Jack was still looking at him, but behind the concern on his face there was wary suspicion. To his credit, he managed to keep the suspicion almost completely out of his voice as he asked, “Are you sure that you are up for this?”

Will gave a sharp laugh that had very little to do with actual amusement. “It’s a bit late in the game to be asking me that, Jack.”

“I need to know where your head is, Will. Lecter thinks that you’re his man in the room; I think you’re mine. Tell me that I am right.”

Will’s eyes skittered away. “I’ll do what I have to.” He ran a hand through his hair and tugged at the sleeves of his shirt as he stood, desperate to get out of there.

Jack’s eyes flew to Will’s wrists, where the bruises were just beginning to turn yellow.

Will’s own eyes widened; he tugged his sleeves down hurriedly. And yet, with the shame there was a definite feeling of satisfaction, of triumph. Let Jack see what became of obsession. Let him see what he had wrought.

“What have you done?” Jack’s voice was laced with horror. His eyes were fixed on Will’s wrists.

Will clenched his jaw. “What had to be done. Anything to catch the Ripper, right, Jack?”

Jack’s head came up. “Are you seriously telling me that it was the only way to gain his trust?” He shook his head. “No. Freddie Lounds and Randall Tier were enough. This is something else. You’re not pinning this one on me, Will.” Disgust flared briefly in his eyes. “I never asked for this.”

“You didn’t want to know, remember? Plausible deniability. You chose not to see; chose to pretend that the ends justified the means. It doesn’t excuse you from your share of the responsibility.” Will’s shoulders slumped as he turned away from Jack’s accusing stare. “Don’t worry, Jack. I don’t blame you for this. It’s me. It’s all me.”

“I need to know, Will: how could you let that happen, knowing what he is? Doesn’t it bother you?”

Will shrugged one shoulder. He didn’t look back as he answered. “Would it bother you, if it were Bella?” Without waiting for a response, he left the room. He did not need to see Jack’s face to know what the man was thinking. He could practically taste the horrified realization that he must be coming to. He didn’t need to hear anything that Jack had to say.

He made it as far as his car before it caught up with him. Once the door closed behind him he began to shake, so violently that he couldn’t even hold his keys properly. Probably, that was a good thing; he was in no state to even think about driving, let alone make the attempt. He dropped them into his lap, bent forward to rest against the steering wheel and closed his eyes, finally letting the memory take him.   
  
_“We could leave tonight, without Jack. Feed your dogs. Leave a note for Alana and go,” Hannibal says, looking at him. And though is face is as neutral as ever, Will knows him now, knows that behind the mask the monster is perched, waiting. This is a test, and Will isn’t sure what the right answer is. But he can’t run away with Hannibal. He won’t deny that the thought is tempting, that something in him would love to just throw his life here away and give into this thing between them. To just let go. But he can’t. He fears that if he does, something deep inside of him, some integral part of the essence that makes up Will Graham, will die. He will be little more than a reflection of the man sitting beside him, and how long would it be before one of them brings their relationship to its only inevitable conclusion? Will thinks it would take less time than Hannibal supposes._ _  
  
So he does the only thing that he can. “If we leave him alive he’ll never stop chasing us,” he says. It is the truth, albeit not entirely. It will have to be enough. “Besides, I think we owe it to Jack to see this through.”  
  
Hannibal studies him a moment, then nods, leaning back. Will hadn’t realized that he had moved so close; he misses it immediately, and hates himself for it. “As you wish.” Hannibal’s mouth turns down at one corner, so briefly that if Will hadn’t been watching him so closely he would have missed it. He looks away, swallowing hard, throat clicking. He has not passed the test. His stomach drops and he feels sick and clammy. More than knowing that he has once again made Hannibal suspicious of him, Will hates that he has disappointed him. He loathes himself for his need to please him, but it doesn’t stop the rush of panic when he knows that he has failed. It doesn’t stop the longing to do better, to_  be  _better. To get Hannibal to look at him with pride and pleasure shining out of his eyes._ _  
  
Will pulls his eyes away from Hannibal’s face and reaches for his wine; fingers visibly trembling. Before they can make contact with his glass, however, they are grasped and raised to Hannibal’s mouth. He presses a light kiss to his scarred knuckles. The tenderness of the gesture nearly undoes Will; he swallows hard and his eyes jump away from Hannibal’s. It isn't fair, he thinks, that Hannibal can mimic this attachment so readily when Will knows he can’t really feel it.   
  
His fingers twitch; Hannibal squeezes them lightly. “I have made a lovely dessert for you Will. If you have finished with your meal, I shall bring it out.”  
  
  
Will shakes his head, turning his hand in Hannibal’s so that he can grip back. “Would you consider it horribly rude if I admitted that I’m not really interested in dessert right now?” His eyes flick rapidly between their hands and Hannibal’s face; he feels weak, unmoored. Something has broken loose inside of him, and he’s not sure he can put it back. Isn’t sure he wants to.   
  
Hannibal’s mouth twitches, but this time the corners of his lips turn up, instead of down. “It is rude,” he says through that faint, fond smile, “but I find that I can forgive it, from you.” He stands, gently disentangling his hand from Will’s, and collects their plates, taking them back into the kitchen.   
  
Will follows. Hannibal sets the plates in the sink and turns to face him, one eyebrow up in silent inquiry. Will looks away, shifting from foot to foot. He takes a step towards Hannibal, then stops, uncertain.   
  
“What is it that you want, Will? You needn’t be afraid to ask.”  
  
Will’s eyes skitter up to meet Hannibal’s, but he can’t hold the gaze. There is still such fondness there and even though he knows it has to be false, has to be a mask that Hannibal is putting on for his benefit, he can’t help the longing that fills him at the sight.   
  
“I just…want to be near you,” he admits, nearly inaudible. The words feel ripped out of him; his chest aches with how true they are. It is nearly done, but before the end he wants to be as close to Hannibal as he can, wants to drown in him and tell himself that can be enough. He ignores the voice inside his head that tells him it will never be enough.   
  
Hannibal holds out his hand. Will takes it; breathes a sigh as Hannibal leads him out of the kitchen and up the stairs. Lets himself be pressed into the bed by confident hands and instead of fighting, allows himself to enjoy every second of it for the first time, and the last._  
  
The soft knock on his window startled him; too lost in his memory to be aware of the outside world. He started, gasping, and looked up into Alana’s concerned face.   
  
He rubbed a hand down his face and gave a short laugh, then rolled down the window.   
  
“Are you okay, Will?”  
  
“Fine. Just tired. For some reason I haven’t been sleeping.” They shared a wry look. Since Alana had realized that Hannibal was not all that he seemed the two of them had begun to work their slow way back to something approximating friendliness. It would never be what it was, but it was less strained than it had been in a long time, and that was enough.   
  
“Will you be able to make it home?” There was genuine worry in her eyes, but Will knew that it wasn’t just for his safety over the long drive to Wolf Trap. She wasn’t exactly sure what Will and Jack were up to – both of them agreed that the less she knew about it, the better – but she knew that they were planning  _something_ , and she knew that Jack was often careless with Will. She still cared for him, and she was concerned that they were falling into the trap of believing that they had the upper hand, when it was Hannibal who was really holding the cards all along.   
  
Will read all of this in her eyes, and couldn’t help the flare of fondness he felt. Alana’s instinct was to flee, to get as far away from Hannibal as she could. She would never understand Will's desperate need to stand toe to toe with the monster. To face him down and know that he was strong enough to resist his pull. Of course, Hannibal had never truly wanted  _Alana_  to see him. No, that dubious pleasure had been reserved exclusively for Will.   
  
“I'll be fine,” he reassured her with a forced smile. "I've driven home worse than this; pretty sure I've done it in my sleep a couple of times." The joke wasn't really funny, but Alana seemed relieved. She stepped back from the window and nodded hesitantly. Will plucked his keys from his lap with perfectly steady hands and started the car.   
  
“I suppose if you say so I have to believe it,” Alana said over the noise of his engine, biting her lip. “Just promise me you’ll try to get some rest. Promise me you’ll take care of yourself. Don’t let Jack push you so hard.”   
  
Will’s smile this time was perfectly genuine. “I always try. I’ll see you later, Alana.”   
  
He pulled out of the parking lot, watching her in his rearview mirror until she was little more than a dark speck in the distance. Until she was no longer recognizable. Will met his own eyes in the mirror and wasn't surprised to find that he didn't recognize himself, either.

~****~

“Goodbye, Alana,” he said, and gently hung up on her protests. They were coming for him. They might have already gotten Jack, but somehow Will didn’t think so. Jack was determined to have a confrontation with Hannibal, and Will knew that there was a good chance that one of them wouldn’t survive it. He had always known that. This was the man who had gone after Chilton without backup, armed with only his service pistol and a sneer, more than ready to put a bullet in someone he’d believed to be the Chesapeake Ripper, his own personal nemesis. He wouldn’t go after Hannibal with the intent of leaving him alive, no matter what he said when he and Will had talked it over.

It hit him like a punch to the gut, what Jack intended to do, what he was more than likely already doing, and Will actually doubled over with the force of it, his breath lost for a few moments. The sound of approaching sirens snapped him out of it, and he forced himself upright and out of the house, only stopping to grab his gun before he was gone into the night. As he ran lightly to where he’d parked his car, his fingers flew over the keys of his cell phone. He didn’t care anymore if Hannibal ran. The only thing that mattered was that Jack didn’t kill him. _No,_ he thought as the phone began to ring. _You can’t. I won’t let you._

When Hannibal answered the phone he could have cried with relief. “Get out of there,” he hissed, sounding nothing like himself, “they know.” He hung up the phone and focused on getting to Hannibal’s as fast as possible. Things had gone wrong, so wrong, and he had a horrible feeling that they were about to get worse.

He was shaking before he even got out of the car, well before he saw Alana’s body lying on the ground. He bent over, thinking that he could check her pulse, but realized that her eyes were open, terrified, and fixed on him. Her mouth opened and closed rapidly, and he understood that she was trying to speak. He shook his head at her, peeling off his coat. He covered her with it as gently as possible, a poor attempt at comfort. The jacket could do little to shield her from the rain or the pain that she must be experiencing. He didn’t want to leave her there but he couldn’t stay, either. Every light in the house was blazing, Alana was lying broken in the yard, Jack was who knew where, and Hannibal hadn’t left. He hadn’t done what he was supposed to. Of course he hadn’t. Will had told him that he couldn’t.

He entered the house warily, doing his best to steady his gun in in trembling hands. This felt so much like entering another house long ago, with a woman dead or dying on the front porch, God only knew what carnage inside. All orchestrated by the same man. The only consolation that Will could offer himself was that there would be no young girl whose life would be forever altered due to his actions.

The blood seeping outside of the pantry door was the first thing that he really saw when he entered the kitchen. After, he can’t help but see everything; the remains of the fight between two strong, driven men there for Will to find and recreate. His breathing came faster as the fight played out before him at warp speed; he flinched when either man seemed to be getting the upper hand. Finally, his eyes fell on the pantry door. He knew without doubt that it was Jack behind it, dying or dead already, and he was ashamed of the relief that that realization brought him. Hannibal was still safe.

There was a noise behind him, a soft sound, and Will pivoted, raising his gun before he quite knew what he was doing. It lowered and nearly fell from suddenly nerveless fingers when his eyes lit on Abigail, sobbing helplessly. He stared at her, gaping, hardly able to credit what his eyes were seeing. He blinked, blinked again, but she remained, looking pale and fragile and terrified out of her mind.

“Abigail..?” His voice was barely audible, but she must have heard because she began speaking, the words coming rapidly, nearly tripping over each other.

“I didn’t know what to do, so I just did what he told me,” her eyes pleaded for forgiveness, but Will didn’t want to know what for. It didn’t matter. Whatever she had done – whatever Hannibal had made her do – it was nothing, nothing to having her alive and in front of him. Everything shivered and then went very still, as Will realized what Hannibal had done, and why.

_He did this for me. He could have – should have – killed her; it would have been easier, more clean. Less chance of getting caught…but he didn’t. He didn’t because he knew that I loved her, and he wanted to be able to give her back to me._ It was wrong, twisted, sick. He should be furious that Hannibal had used Abigail as a bargaining chip, a way to secure Will to him forever, but he that wasn’t how he felt at all. Elation filled him at the knowledge of just how much Hannibal had come to care; how much Will had changed him, even before he’d started trying.

“Where is he?” he asked gently. Abigail’s eyes darted over his shoulder and he turned, his body beginng to shake again.

Hannibal was right behind him, his face bloody and somehow more open than Will had ever seen it. There was grief there, and something that looked very much like longing. “You were supposed to leave,” Will told him, fury entering his voice. No matter what had happened between them, no matter what Will had said, Abigail’s safety should have come first. That is what Will would have wanted, Hannibal had to know that. So why hadn’t he run?

“We couldn’t leave without you.” And Will knew. It was right there, in Hannibal’s voice, in the sadness in his eyes. He had wanted to be enough. And now that he knew he wasn’t, he would burn the world down around him in revenge. The best thing that Will could do would be to lift the gun he was still holding and put a bullet in Hannibal’s head before he could react. But the hand stayed at his side.

Hannibal lifted a hand, hesitated, then brought it to rest against Will’s face, thumb stroking over his cheek as his fingers slid into his hair. Will stared at him, trembling, unable to look away as he finally allowed himself to see the truth.

_You were my best friend,_ he thought helplessly, reading his death in Hannibal’s face and making no move to stop it. _My best friend and my worst enemy and God help me, I love you._

_I love you_ , he thought as the knife plunged into his stomach and tore, ripped him open. The gun fell from his hand and he clutched at Hannibal, gasping with the pain of it but somehow still unable to move, unable to think past the rush of feeling that he’d been doing his best to repress for so long.

_I love you,_ he thought as Hannibal pulled him close, holding him tightly and speaking into his ear. Will caught hardly any of it; his mind was full of white noise.

“Do you understand?” Hannibal asked, and Will shook his head, his fingers tightening and releasing in Hannibal’s shirt as his legs began to go loose and watery.

Hannibal pulled out of the embrace. Will clutched at him, but he was stronger. He cradled Will’s face in his hands, his own face full of a terrible sort of fondness that pained Will to look at. His knees buckled, but Hannibal held him up. “I wanted to surprise you,” he said softly, and then his face twisted. “And you wanted to surprise me.” He released Will, letting him fall to the ground. Will hit hard, and his vision greyed out briefly as the collision with the floor caused even more pain to flare up in his belly. He was losing blood rapidly, and when the grey receded it did not go all the way, leaving his vision a bit fuzzy.

Hannibal’s eyes did not move from his face. “I let you know me; see me. I gave you a rare gift, but you didn’t want it.” His voice was hard, but his eyes were full of tears.   
  
Will let out a laugh that was more like a sob. “Didn’t I,” he said. That was the crux of the problem, wasn’t it? He had wanted it, had wanted it so desperately that he’d had to blind himself to it in order to keep himself even half-tethered to his original plan.   
  
“You would deny me my life.”  
  
“No,” Will blurted, horrified. “Not your life; never…not…” he listed to the side, thought about trying to get the wall at his back, decided it wasn’t worth the effort, and let himself slip sideways. As a reflex he flung out the arm that he hadn’t wrapped about himself to try and make the fall a little less jarring. It worked, to a point; his hand skidded through his own blood and nearly sent him toppling over completely.   
  
Hannibal considered him a moment, then nodded. “Perhaps not,” he agreed. “But you would take my freedom.” He bent close to Will, so close that if he leaned forward just a little, their foreheads would touch. Will wished that he would. What did it say about him, he wondered, that he would still find such a gesture comforting, after everything? “Did you think that you would change me, the way that I’ve changed you?”   
  
Will gave him a triumphant look. “I already did.”  
  
Hannibal stared at him a moment. Recognition flared in his eyes, and he yanked himself away from Will, shaking his head as if to clear it. “It would seem that time has returned us to this moment, when the teacup shatters,” he said, voice resolute, and suddenly Will knew how he intended this play to end. How he planned on punishing Will for his betrayal. The knowledge filled him with panic, and he slid queasily through the blood on the floor towards Hannibal, letting go of the wound in his stomach to reach out his hand imploringly.  
  
“No, no, please don’t,” he begged, the tears beginning to fall. “Don’t, it’s enough, please, no.”  
  
Hannibal looked down at him with grim satisfaction. “Abigail, to me,” he said, reaching out a hand.   
  
Abigail didn’t move at first. Her eyes, wide with mingled horror and disbelief, were fixed on Will. Hannibal took his own eyes off of Will to fix her with an impatient stare. “Abigail,” he repeated sternly, and Will took his chance.   
  
With the last of his strength, he flung himself forward, hand outstretched – but not for Hannibal. Instead his fingers closed on the handle of the gun that he’d dropped earlier, the one that all of them had forgotten. He felt the wound in his gut tear open even farther, but he ignored it. He would only have one chance. He raised the gun and fired; the bullet took Hannibal in the shoulder – a wound to match Will’s own. The force of the bullet pushed him backwards, but though he fell to the floor, he made no sound. Abigail screamed, her hands flying to cover her mouth as tears streamed down her face. Hannibal looked at Will and grinned; he started to stand.   
  
Will fired again. This bullet shattered Hannibal’s knee; with a cry he fell again. “Stay. Down,” Will gritted, and shot him one more time. The third bullet hit him in the stomach, and this time Will was the one who cried out. The gun in his hand felt like it weighed a thousand pounds; he would not be able to hold on to it much longer. “Abigail, go,” he said, panting with the effort of keeping the gun trained on Hannibal when all he wanted to do was drop it, close his eyes and float away. “Run. Live.”  
  
This time, Abigail didn’t hesitate. She sent one last terrified look at the two of them, then turned and fled. Will put the gun on the floor and pushed it away from him. He laid out on the ground and turned his face towards Hannibal, who had stopped trying to get up and had instead leaned against the island for support, his hand placed firmly on the wound in his gut. 

  
Hannibal was watching him. “You should have kept the gun,” he said conversationally. “You might have been able to kill me, after all. Put down the Chesapeake Ripper for good.”  
  
Will shook his head, letting out a sound of genuine amusement. “Wouldn’t have worked,” he forced out through numb lips. “I’m…awful shot.” He made a feeble gesture in Hannibal’s direction, as if to say “case in point.” He was so tired. His eyelids felt like they had weights on top of them, pressing them down. He kept them open by sheer force of will, half afraid that if he closed them Hannibal would disappear.   
  
Hannibal laughed a bit, wincing slightly. “Remarkable boy,” he said, voice laced with pride and something that sounded uncomfortably like love. “How lovely you are. I think I’d like to eat your heart.”  
  
“Thanks,” Will thought he said, but would never know if the word actually passed his lips. He’d lost the battle with the weights on top of his eyelids, and as he sank gratefully into the darkness the last thing he was aware of was the sound of sirens, getting closer.


End file.
